Definition
by aprosexia
Summary: Kevin Jonas. "I’ve acquired a taste for listening. It’s kind of addicting, that excitement that you know that you’re in the confidence of someone who doesn’t given their trust away easily. You feel like you’re in their mind, for just a split second."
1. philia

_A/N: __This is an accompaniment (pseudo-sequel) to my other story, Figment. _

**1/ONE**

"So, I've been thinking about AJ."

"No way. Why?" Brush left. Brush up. Brush down. Brush right.

"It's her birthday tomorrow." Joe states, then pausing a little. "What do you think I should get her?" he said, making a rare deadpanned joke.

I spit in the sink. I rinse my toothbrush and looked to my right, where I spot Joe precariously bridging the gap between my bed and his own. In one agile yet extremely awkward-looking motion, he pushes himself completely onto his bed again, his body disappearing into his own hole in the wall. With my phone in hand.

"You know what I'm going to say. I say, just let it go. Sometimes people hate each other. It's best to just not think about it and move on. Talking to her again will only lead to more drama." I offered my advice, knowing that he's not listening. I turn on the straightener and open the medicine cabinet to get the floss when I notice a brand new, unopened box of toothpaste, taking up the entire middle shelf.

"Uh, why do we have two tubes of toothpaste?"

"What do you mean?" Joe asked.

"I mean that there's a brand new box of toothpaste here even though we just bought one, like a week ago."

"I don't know. Why don't you assemble a team to investigate?" He's diffusing. Whenever he tries to hide something, he diffuses questions by making a joke. Although curious, I drop the subject completely.

Nick and my dad walk into the bus.

"Hey, they have donuts out there! Get some before they're all gone!" Nick seems really excited today. He sat himself in our "kitchen," which was really just a booth next to a mini-fridge and stove.

Come to think of it, Joe woke up really early this morning too. Maybe I'm just getting more tired, my twenty years starting to weigh down my body. I haven't been sleeping very well lately. I'm not sure what it is, but I woke up today and felt like I only slept half the amount I actually did. The same thing happened last week. It must be all the late-night snacking or something.

Tour life takes a major toll on your body. All the food that enters your body probably took about three minutes to prepare. You sleep in a cocoon or in a strange bed in hotel rooms that are too cold or too dry. People are constantly around. You begin to get a little claustrophobic if you don't take time to just... take a breath.

J doesn't seem to mind though. I haven't heard her complain once about the constant traveling or the crazy hours or the ever-present pack of screaming girls. She really does love it on the road. She told me herself.

I decide to skip breakfast today. I have this new melody that's festering in my head, burning a hole there. So I grab my guitar case and walk to another bus, where things are a little more spread out.

On the way, I spot Jeanine in the distance, carrying a keyboard. I wave to her, but she doesn't see. She was listening to her iPod. She hardly ever listens to it while she's working. Her expression was really serious. Actually, it's about the same as it always is; it just appears serious in comparison to her demeanor over the past week or so.

I feel stupid for waving at someone who didn't even notice. I look to see if anyone noticed. I don't think anyone did. Thank goodness.

* * *

"So what's going on with you and J?" Greg asked, trying to deflect the attention from his own love life. I let him. He's having a hard time with Chloe.

"Dude, seriously, you need to get on that!" My friends can be such meatheads sometimes. As I line up my shot, Chase keeps talking and my friends keep agreeing with him. "It's so obvious she has a thing for you!"

"We're." Line the shot. "Just." One swift motion through the fingers. "Friends." Watch the cue ball hit the seven.

Too bad it ended up hitting the nine instead. I stand up, leaning on my cue and chewed on the toothpick hanging from my mouth. Wow, I really do suck at pool.

"Whatever you say, man." Greg executes his shot in a third of the time it took me. He's also three times as effective.

I get this a lot. About J. In all honesty, I would've asked her out by now, but I can't. Besides, I re-read a selection from this devotional my mom got me for my birthday. It dealt with dating. Love comes in many forms, it said. The Greeks had three words that equate to the English word "love" – _eros_, _philia_, and _agape_. Right now, I'm okay with philia, not just with J but with all girls. Watching my brothers flounder around with their love lives, I definitely don't miss the strange, awkward, confusing world of trying to turn a girl friend into your girlfriend. Eros can wait, even indefinitely. And agape? I'm not sure if that's even worth attempting at my age.

But when I saw her this morning on stage, and she looked at me like that, it gets just the slightest bit harder to suppress those feelings of eros. It gets even harder when she tips her head to the side when I talk, and I can tell she's actually thinking about what I'm saying. She takes those extra seconds before saying anything in return. She does the same routine: she looks down, then she looks at my nose, places her hand under her chin and says something insightful.

Chase and I lost, so we bought dessert at a drive-thru on the way home. Home is the bus now. Home is that clump of buses, vans, and cars that follow us everywhere. I love home.

The guys raid our sleeping bus, displacing Joe in the process. He asks for my phone. When he asked I gave him a suspicious look. I don't think he noticed. Well, at least this time he asked. When I hand it to him, he runs off. I stay behind for a few minutes.

When I eventually go outside to take that necessary breath of fresh air, I couldn't spot him. I look up at the clear black sky and think it's perfect weather for a stroll around the sleeping buses. The stars were visible and the waning gibbous (Nick was covering Earth and Space science last month for home school) was shining extremely brightly in the mostly clear sky.

"Hey, rockstar, isn't it past your bedtime?" I look down from the sky and see her walking towards me, hands stuffed in her pockets as always.

"Hey, yourself." We walk side by side, weaving through the monstrous vehicles.

"So, thanks for that text today. It really made my day."

"No biggie. What was wrong anyway?"

"Nothing was wrong. I was just tired, I guess."

It sounds like she's lying, but I don't want to seem too nosy. I just avert the conversation to something else.

"Oh, so I'm working on a new song. I'm really excited about it."

"That's great."

"The only problem is, I can't get it out of my head and into... here. Real life."

"Weird."

"Yeah, I know. I have this vague idea of what I want, you know? But when I try to play it, it just comes out disappointing."

"Hm... you know what helped the Beatles write their music?"

"What?"

"Lots of weed."

"Oh, right. My parents would love that. Thanks for the help."

"Just trying to help, bud," she says with a just a trace of laugh.

We walk the entire length of a bus before she began to talk again.

"So I have a completely intrusive, nosy, and altogether inappropriate question..."

"Oh, my favorite kind." She lets out a small chuckle. "Ask away."

"What were you thinking of when you wrote 'When You Look Me in the Eyes'?"

I smile a little to myself. I'm sure she didn't see. We usually are doing something when we talk: watching a screen, concentrating on a book, walking. Our eyes are always careful not to focus on the other's for too long.

I'm glad she asked. I think it was two days ago that Joe told me that she asked him that. To be honest, I guess I was a little surprised, I wouldn't go so far as to say I was hurt. I just didn't think that she would go to talk Joe before me. And then Joe made that remark about potentially going after her. I just blew it off. Joe talks a lot and I could tell he wasn't being very serious. If he were, I would've stepped in as 'older brother Kevin' and advised against it.

"A girl."

"Oh my god..." she moaned, comically frustrated at my evasiveness. "What is with you boys? Don't you trust me?"

"Only as much as you trust me."

Okay, so realistically, I couldn't trust her as much as she trusted me. That is, if she trusts me as much as I think she does. My face is plastered all over some stranger's walls. Even our friends are subjected to it (e.g. Mandy. Believe me, we have learned our lesson. That is the first and last time we name a song after a girl). Hardly anything in my life is private anymore. Everything I do is recorded, posted online, and ready for judgment from masses. I have to regulate what I reveal to anyone, except for immediate family and maybe couple friends.

Actually, she might not trust me all that much.

I begin to answer her question earnestly. I tell her about my first girlfriend and my romantic dinner with her. Since we couldn't drive, I got my mom to drive us to the shore and we went rollerblading on the pier in the evening. Cindy. Puppy love is grand. I tell her about writing love letters too.

She looked over at me. She looked surprised.

"I didn't think you had it in you."

"Thanks." Wait... "I guess?"

"So I guess Joe learned from you, huh?"

"Oh definitely. He asks me for romantic ideas all the time. Of course, he would never admit that."

"Interesting. I think I had you labeled all wrong, rockstar." The words just hang in the air. We turned a corner and passed our starting point.

"Oh, so I finished that book you gave me. And actually I re-" she stopped mid-word because her ankle rolled, causing her to fall gently against my arm. She quickly balances herself on her own.

The contact is fleeting, but the feeling she left on my arm lingers.

She wasn't a very touchy person. I've never seen her give a hug. The most I've seen her touch another person is probably a high five here and there. We've established the status quo in regard to physical contact: there isn't any. It was this silent contract. It was broken rarely and never on purpose. The brush is not acknowledged; she continues with her book review.

I try my best to concentrate on her, but all I could think about is that residual tingling left from her touch.

_Philia,_ I repeat to myself in my head. _Philia. Philia. Philia._

* * *

I know a secret about her. I have for awhile now. She doesn't know I know. Every so often, I just mess with her.

About a month ago, I was telling her about Greg and Chloe. They seemed to have complications lifting off from the friend stage.

"So, what would you do if you wanted to date someone but you couldn't?"

"Well, you mean like Chloe? Like, why wouldn't I be able to date someone?" she always tried to pin down my hypothetical questions.

"I dunno. Maybe you promised someone you wouldn't," I said casually.

"Well... I don't know. I can't imagine anything like that happening."

Right then and there, I wanted to burst out and tell her that I knew. I didn't though.

At the time, I found it funny and ironic (the kind that means the audience knows something that the characters don't. What's that called again?). But now, it gets me a little depressed. I like to believe that she keeps secrets to protect me.


	2. paranoid

**2/TWO**

I walk the short distance to our trailer after walking Jeanine to her ride. She, with the rest of the crew, are staying at a nearby motel for the night. To be honest, I don't know why we aren't staying there for the night too. I wish I were in a full-sized bed tonight, but I don't question the decision. I've learned to just take orders.

As I neared the bus door, I spot Joe walking toward me.

"Hey. Where'd you go?" he asked.

Every time I saw Joe today, I think to this morning when I found Joe awake and dressed before my alarm even went off. I cannot stress enough how weird this is.

We have been on the road for 264 of the past 298 days. Out of the 264 days we've been away from a permanent home, Joe has woken up before me a sum total of five or six times. The first time, he sprinted out of his bed at 4 a.m. to throw up the baby back ribs and okra we had for dinner. How do I remember the exact meal? Well, Joe isn't has fast as he thinks he is.

The other times were on days we had off so I slept until well into the afternoon. One time, I may have woken up to the sight of the sun setting.

So back to the point, Joe is acting weird. I wonder if it has to do with AJ. I worry that it's may be another girl, but who could it be?

"I went for a walk with J. Where did you disappear to?"

"Uh, long story. I'll tell you later." He answered as we climbed the stairs to our home.

We have to shoo everyone out. The rest of my family was back too. Nick was eager to get to bed. So I corral the guys into the exit. They leave noisily, chaotically.

We all begin our bedtime rituals, taking turns using the small bathroom. When it became Nick's turn, I ask Joe about where he went to earlier.

"I called AJ."

"You're an idiot."

"I know that now, thank you."

"Why'd you do it?"

"Well, I guess I wanted to settle it, like, once and for all."

"Uh, you didn't think it was settled? After all that drama, you still didn't feel it was settled?"

"Well, she was my friend. It sucks to not have a friend anymore, right?"

"I guess... but come _on_."

"Speaking of friends," he began to segue into a topic that didn't focus on his imperfections, "what did you do with J?"

"We just took a walk. She finished _Perks of Being a Wallflower_ and wanted to tell me about it."

"That was it?"

"Pretty much."

The conversation temporarily dissipates into silence.

Joe speaks up again. "Talking to her is fun, huh? She makes me feel so smart and funny."

Three or four days ago, Joe brought up Jeanine in conversation. He thought he was being smooth, but I saw through his act immediately. Okay, maybe not _immediately_, but as soon as the words "Do you think she likes me?" so uncharacteristically and awkwardly came out of his mouth, I knew it was all a set-up. He just wanted to gauge my reactions; he obviously didn't buy my "we're just friends" spiel. But then again, who does?

But right now, it doesn't seem like he's acting or trying to trick me into revealing my true feelings, which, for the hundredth time, are the same as the feelings I am publicly expressing.

"Actually, I feel kinda dumb around her sometimes."

He didn't agree. "The girl laughs at, like, everything you say. It's awesome."

"Yeah, but the girl can go from giggly to metaphysical in no time flat. I mean, it's really awesome that she can do that, but a little intimidating at the same time."

Huh... why would Joe, all of sudden, bring all this new insight on J?

"Wait a second, Joe. How would you know all this?" Is it possible that Joe's questions a few nights ago weren't designed to trick me, but were honest and serious thoughts? Is she the reason he woke up early this morning? Am I being insanely paranoid?

Nick then walks in between me and Joe and says that one of us can go in now.

"I don't think _giggly_ is the right word. It's more like... a chuckle," Joe said, looking like he was deep in thought.

"Joe..." He grabshis towel and walked to the bathroom. "Joe!" He continues walking and shut the door behind him.

I think I just blew my cover. That is, the cover that I don't have. He totally thinks I like her now. Great.

"You guys talking about Jeanine?" Nick asked, patting down his wet hair with a towel. When I answer affirmatively, he continued, "If you see her tomorrow, ask her if she can help me with my physics."

Jeanine likes tutoring us for fun when Ms. Benson, our on-the-road teacher, is not available for whatever reason. Actually, it's only Nick and Frankie who _actually_ need tutors, but I think of her a teacher to me at times, just in a less structured way. I consider her pretty smart. I always say that it's not what you know that makes you a good teacher, it's how well you can pass on your knowledge. With J, it's not her knowledge that makes her a good teacher. It's her patience and clarity. She said that she gets a "momentary high" when a struggling student finally has that moment of insight and just gets it. She used to tutor in high school and a little in college.

Sometimes I wonder how she got here, working as a stage hand, instead of working on getting her degree, so she can make a career off her "momentary highs." She finished a year and a half at Ohio State commuting from home. That's what she told me. When she was struggling to decide whether to take a break from school, this opportunity popped up. It was like destiny.

When Matt got injured this past December (which is why there was a position open in the first place), he had to fight tooth and nail for J. Matt was a friend of her family, practically her uncle, and he vouched for her. Some of the suits were still worried though, mostly about her age and how it is so close to ours. So to get here, she signed a contract that basically said she'll be fired if started a relationship with any of us.

Or so says Greg. He told me all this within the week we first met her. He "heard it through the tour grapevine." At the time, I didn't bother to get any confirmation because... well, because who would I have asked? And she was just another face on the crew at that point. By the time I took any interest in her history, it was already a couple months after the fact. Besides, it didn't really become a problem until recently.

Scratch that.

It isn't a problem at all.

--

_I know a lot of writers write themselves into the characters. So if you find the main character (usually an OC) incredibly annoying, you would never write that in a review because you're probably indirectly calling the writer incredibly annoying. While obviously I can only write about what I know (and I know myself), I try to distance myself from my characters. So feel free to hate, laugh at, disagree with, deride, etc.. my characters. You won't offend me. As long as you're thinking... I'm happy._

_Time context: Definition ch. 1 and 2 happen the same time as ch. 4 and 5 from Figment; it only spans one day. So as J and Kevin were taking a walk, Joe was on the phone with AJ. Earlier in the day, Joe upset J with a stupid comment, but it was quickly (and silently) resolved. _

_By the way, I have the most **quality** readers around! If I only get three reviews for this entire story, I'm glad it was from you three. I love you all (;_


	3. fallen out of love

_I guess I should've said this before. Yes, my characters are Christian. No, this does not mean that I think everyone should be Christian. This doesn't even mean that I'm Christian. Just think of it like another character trait. _

**3/THREE**

The weekend after we played in Cleveland a couple weeks ago, we visited J's church and had dinner over her house. The drive back, I was driving a car with J and Nick. Everyone else was in the large van. Nick had fallen asleep in the back seat and J was in the passenger seat, scrolling through my iPod for good driving music.

We had just finished chatting about everyone I had met, her family primarily. Her mother was really nice, and her sisters were spitting images of their older sister. They each had their own little quirks and personalities though, like any group of siblings.

We were talking about the compatibility of my Uncle Steve and one of her older cousins, thereby possibly melding the Jonas and Salvage households. Laughing, she had finally settled on John Mayer's discography and placed the iPod in the cupholders between our seats.

Switching topics, I asked her how she felt about returning home.

"Mixed feelings. Lots of stuff happening, but mostly good. Yeah, for the most part, it felt pretty good being home again," she said, then paused. "My two-year crush is officially dead."

The second sentence caught me off-guard. It came out of left field. Not only that, but she gave no indication that she was interested in any guy in our conversations prior to this point.

She elaborated, upon request.

"The guy you met at potluck. Yeah, him, the one our age. We were, like, best friends, since I've met him a couple years ago. I knew he didn't like me, so I just sucked it up. I didn't even attempt to take it further. Yeah, I thought I loved him, but now I know that I didn't."

"Well, if you lasted two years, it sounds a lot like love to me."

"Love doesn't end. Since this ended, then it couldn't be love."

I didn't agree with her, but I didn't want to derail this conversation with a debate over the nature of love. I just wanted to hear more.

"After being on tour, I guess I thought about him less and less. I really didn't expect that to happen. I mean, he goes to college in Virginia, so we've been apart for almost a year and a half now and it didn't have any effect on how I felt about him, you know? So it was really weird that those romantic feelings began to fade. And seeing him again... I didn't feel any of those crush-like symptoms. It was... I don't know."

"Are you happy you don't like him anymore?"

"Yeah, I guess. I mean, it isn't healthy to be hung up on a person for so long, especially with no chance of those feelings being returned. But I have to admit, despite everything, I think I'm going to miss it. I mean, what am I going to think about now in my spare time?" She laughed during her last sentence. She was half-joking.

"I know what you mean. After you're done liking someone, there's always that temptation of liking them again just because you're bored or you miss being in love." I stifle the urge to tell the whole Amanda saga. It takes some effort, but I keep the focus of the conversation on her. I don't think she'd mind if I did happen to shift the conversation to myself, at least for a little bit, but I am consciously trying to become a better listener by practice. I don't need to practice talking about myself.

"Definitely," she agreed. "Love hunting seems like the ultimate hobby."

"What do you mean? Hobby?"

"Well, a hobby is something not out of necessity but merely pleasure. Like collecting stamps is not exactly vital to living, although maybe if you're_ really_ into it, it may feel that way." She stopped to laugh with me. "If that's what the definition of a hobby is, then the whole process of dating and the whole phenomenon of romantic relationships is definitely a hobby then, at least to many people. I mean, they do it merely because it makes them feel good."

I mumble something, indicating that I want her to keep going.

"I sound really bitter and judgmental right now, but I'm really not. I mean, people need hobbies, especially now a days. Just look at me. Maybe if I took up another hobby or two, I'd have more friends or be more successful.

"I don't know, I guess this makes sense. Crushes are so... childish. I mean, over the past half year or so, I've been feeling less and less emotional, you know? It made me feel like I was growing up, the fact that I wasn't getting riled up over stupid little things like I used to. And the end of this crush... it just seems to fit in with the general... what's the word... direction my life is headed towards."

I think about what she just said. I mutter again to tell her that I'm listening, something along the lines of "Mm hmm... yah." But mostly I just bask in the moment. It took a lot to get to this moment.

I talk a lot. I always have. Just ask my Mom or Dad or Joe, and they'll rattle off story after story showcasing my gregarious nature even as a child. I always look for a good listener. All my close friends and successful romantic endeavors owe their success to the other person's ability to deal with my constant chatter. I love a good listener. Following history, when me and J started "talking," it was really just me blabbering about whatever was on my mind and her interjecting a few words of agreement.

I didn't really take notice to the one-sidedness to our conversations until one day someone asked me something extremely basic about J, and I couldn't answer them. About three weeks of talking to her, and I couldn't tell them a single thing – okay, maybe a few things.

Even when I started taking an interest in what she had to say, she didn't have much to say. I guess she is a lot like Nick that way. She's a verbal minimalist. I made the mistake of thinking it was because she was really dull. After some time, she began talking more to me.

The point is it took a lot to get to this point: her revealing her thoughts without the threat of force. So her telling me all she did just then... it was like a mini-miracle. Whether or not I agreed with what she was saying was beside the point.

I've acquired a taste for listening. It's kind of addicting, that excitement that you know that you're in the confidence of someone who doesn't given their confidence away easily. You feel like you're in their mind, for just a split second. And it's awesome.

* * *

Looking at her walking around from the darkly tinted windows of our living bus, I notice she is depressed. The windows are one-way. I'm thankful for that, especially now, when I look pretty damn creepy.

I swear I do not like her. You can't like someone if you don't want to, right? Well, if you do, then it's certainly not the type of love worth pursuing. I mean, that's the kind of stuff that brings about epic falls in history. King David with Bathsheba, the army guy who fell in love with Carmen, the entire nation of Troy. Yeah, they all got screwed over by love, or at least what one person believed to be love. Once you resign yourself to the fact that your emotions are uncontrollable and must be satisfied, you're on a slippery slope.

I guess what I mean is that crushes are involuntary. Love isn't.

True love waits (and not just in relation to sex). Love is patient. Love is long-suffering.

Right?

Anyway, I can tell she's going through something. Fleetingly I consider the possibility of a boy in her life. The reason why she's inexplicably cheery for a week, then for two days, she wears her upset face. I shoo away the thought almost instantly. There's no way there could be a boy. I would know about it if there were one. Besides, that would be way too simple a reason to explain J. I don't think she's that simple.

I guess she's secretive by nature, but for the past week or so, she seems more closed off than usual. I don't understand it. If I let out too much information, not only is my reputation but also my job is at stake. But what does she have to lose by sharing her feelings?

Something hits me. It feels like a cannonball into an icy pool, a shock to my system.

I have to go find my guitar. And my brothers. And a pen.

I look around spastically; my movements have no rhyme or reason. I pat myself down in search of something to write with. I take out my wallet. Then I feel the outline of mini-golf pencil in my jacket.

Leaning against the nearest flat surface, I furiously begin scribbling down words on the back of a receipt. I leave out some basic words, most articles, and some conjunctions, disregarding neatness. I hope this will be legible later.

"Nick!" I exclaim, expecting him to respond. When he doesn't, I spin my head in all possible directions and yell a couple more times.

"What? What?" he answered, nearly tumbling out of his bed. I guess I scared him.

"I have something. Grab my guitar, will ya?"

He walks over to me. I hand him the small and crinkled receipt. He squints and hands the receipt back to me.

"Yeah, definitely can't read that." He walks to the back to grab both our guitars. "I have something too. I told you about it before."

"Yeah, okay. I just really have to get this down before I forget." I grab the neck of my guitar and pick up from where I always start.

My fingers move up and down the frets, hardly with any direction on my part. As my fingers strum, I hum the potential melody. Here is the part where I always stall. I slow down my strumming and my fingers move somewhere new. It actually doesn't sound half bad.

I start over from the top. Fingers strumming, strings vibrating, fingertips burning. I go just a little bit further this time.

"I like it." Nick comes back, holding his notebook.

I stop playing to read his lyrics. "People change and promises are broken…" He begins explaining what lines are the chorus and which are verses. I look at the lyrics. The lyrics are hopeful and uplifting. They were probably leftovers from our other song "Hold On."

"Let's move to the recording bus. It's so crowded in here. Oh, and call Joe."

I grab my laptop, pack my guitar, and put on a sweater. I always preferred writing music in the recording bus. I just get a more creative vibe in there than in this bus.

"Hey Joe, come quick. Me and Kev are writing a new song. Come to the recording bus." Nick is pert on the phone, that is, when he even uses it. My youngest brother is a man of few words. He offers a nice balance to Joe and me.

As Nick calls Joe, I grab my things and head out.

I feel like a burden has been lifted off my shoulders... or at least one of them. The melody had bugged me for days and now it's out here, where everyone can hear it.

For those who have never written a song, the feeling I have right now is like the joy of finding the perfect word, mot juste. I know everyone has been there: while writing or talking, you stop mid-sentence because you completely forget the word to describe their abstract thoughts. People begin listing possibilities; thesaurus offer some more. None of them are _that _word. But when _that_ word, the perfect embodiment of your ideas, finally comes into your mind – seconds, minutes, hours, or days later – you feel this tremendous sense of relief, even accomplishment.

Yeah, that's what I feel right now.

I'm finally glad my concept of a song is becoming an actual song. And it's awesome.


	4. waiting

**4/FOUR **

"So..." Nick begins to say as we are walking to the recording bus. "Who were you thinking of?"

Out of character, Nick is making small-talk during our writing time. Although we technically aren't writing at this exact moment, it still counts as "writing time" because we're in the mindset of writing music. From the time we start a song and the time we finish a song, even if we have lunch in that period of time, even if Joe decides he's in the mood to play frisbee, that is still "writing time." When we're writing, Nick's usually the one who nags us about staying focused.

"Jeanine," I respond reluctantly. I can't lie to Nick, but I know how this sounds. His next question came as no surprise. "No," I reply. "We're just friends, and I want it to stay like that."

Not a lie.

I _do_ want to stay her friend.

Trying to aim for anything more will screw things up. I mean, I've only really known her about two months. This is the phase where potential for romance is always gauged. At least everyone I've talked to this about agrees with me. The first few months after meeting, two single people are always wrestling with "Will we? Won't we? Can we? Should we?" romantic tension. I say the time period lasts three months, but I've heard everything from three weeks to six months to eight one-on-one conversations.

I figure that if I wait long enough, our friendship will become ordinary and habitual enough that any thoughts of a romantic relationship will be completely gone.

This is completely normal, what I'm feeling now. I'm pretty sure that if J thought about "us" at all, that she had stopped very quickly thereafter.

It wasn't a lie.

* * *

One of the first personal pieces of information she told me was the fact her parents were divorced.

It's strange how so many marriages and families have experienced divorced, and yet I have remained nearly untouched. Not only is my family still intact but also the families of almost all my close friends now and growing up. I realize that I'm the strange one, not her.

Over a year ago ("not quite a year and a half" according to her), her dad moved out for good; the divorce papers were finalized not long after. She says he doesn't really know where he is now. One of her cousins said he visited her father in Seattle in a small loft in the city.

"God only knows where he is now. The address on the child support checks keeps changing."

Prior to the divorce, her dad had been disappearing for various lengths of time. Sometimes it was just for the night; one time it was almost a week he wasn't home. For as long as she could remember, he had been the perfect father and husband. Then suddenly, he started being flaky.

"We were like your family. Knock on wood. Not that I think your family will go through what mine did. You know what? I'm sure they won't."

Her mother explained to her when the divorce was finalized that when J was really young, her father had done the same thing. Somehow they worked through it and she thought it was done and over with. J claims to not remember any of that.

Was he cheating? Maybe. It doesn't matter apparently.

"It wouldn't influence how I feel about him at all if I knew if he were cheating or not. The bottom line is he bailed on his family. What kind of person does that? My youngest sister is 9!"

It shook up her family, her extended family, and the church quite a bit. A small church like that? I could only imagine the gossip.

Maybe that's why she stopped going to church about a year ago.

Maybe that's why she is here, away from home.

Maybe that's why she stopped believing in love.

* * *

I don't really know what I'm doing here. One minute I'm jamming with my brother and the next, I'm jogging around Camp Jonas, feeling like I'm responding to a 9-1-1 call.

It's all because of Joe's breathless entrance into the recording bus.

"J needs you."

"Is she okay? Why are you out of breath? Is she hurt?"

"Just… go to her. She's on the picnic benches behind the little shed thingy..."

"What?"

"Just go!" he commands while pushing me out the door.

I wish he gave me a more thorough briefing before shoving me, literally and figuratively, into the situation.

--

_"Figment" readers should know what's coming next! (:_


	5. economics, literature & epiphanies

_Go read my other story Figment... right now! It may be a little painful (and boring) at times, but everything in the following chapters will make just a little more sense. It's not very long. Promise (:_

* * *

**5/FIVE**

So I stand there silently, absolutely motionless. I don't want to disturb her. She doesn't know I am there. Well, she certainly shows no sign that she knows that I'm standing behind her.

She's slouching, sitting on the tabletop of an old picnic bench. Her head is propped up by her one of her hands, with her elbows on her knees. Her feet are planted firmly on the wooden planks that normal people would use as a seat. She may possibly be more motionless than I am, which is hard to imagine. For a second, I wonder if she is asleep.

Cautiously, I place a hand on her shoulder. She shivers and suddenly twitches her shoulder. She turns around, but quickly turns her back to me again wordlessly.

Her face was definitely sad just then. Her eyes weren't swollen or red or anything like that. They were just... sad. They looked like they looked right through me.

I take a seat next to her. I think back to the advice my mom gave me a long time ago. Girls just want support when they're upset. They just want you to listen, not to fix everything. So I wait – wait for her to talk, wait to listen.

For a long time, I just stare at my boots. Two brown straps of leather wrapped around my feet. I follow the lines of the embroidery and the intersecting stitching. For hours, it feels like, I stare at my shoes.

Eventually, I begin the process of multi-tasking. Along with memorizing the path of the stitching on my footwear, I sway my knees from side to side. It's a nervous habit. I usually bounce my legs up and down on the balls of my feet, but the bench was rickety and would transfer the movement to her. I don't want to disrupt her any more than necessary, so I merely sway. My knees bounce off each other, reach their maximum separation point, and collide again. This cycle does not go on for very long before...

I accidentally touch her. It was a fleeting indiscretion; I honestly didn't intend to break our unspoken rule. I quickly yank my legs back into their rightful place, carefully confined to my personal zone of non-encroachment.

She didn't seem to notice any of this.

Testing the waters, I do it again. Again, she doesn't flinch or move away. She is staring at our legs at this point.

Greg and Hunter once kept track of how many girls come up to us on any given day. They kept tally for about two weeks. They said I hugged an average of 14.4 girls a day. I didn't believe them. "Numbers," they said, "don't lie, Casanova." Though I still don't believe them, I do admit that I'm no stranger to physical contact. I'm not _that_ pure: I'm a twenty-year-old, twenty-first century male. Although I wear a ring on my left finger, I've been close to losing that privilege. A couple times, actually.

I suppose that I regard every touch from her so highly because they are so rare. Isn't that a cornerstone of economics? Supply and demand. Its value derives from its scarcity. So maybe girls are onto something when they play hard-to-get. Maybe it actually works. Hopefully she isn't playing any of those games.

Our legs brush again, but instead of quickly retracting it back, I let it linger, pressing against hers and exchanging heat.

On second thought, I do kinda hope she is playing hard to get. If she is, then it means she wants me to want her.

So we continue to sit there in silence, our personal zones of non-encroachment beginning to merge into one. Our knees are the bridge spanning the visible and invisible gap between us. The status quo – our unspoken rule – is completely demolished at this point.

Almost undetectably, she inches closer to me. Our thighs touch, then our elbows, then our wrists, then the lengths of our arms. These moves felt like they happened very rapidly. The time between them feels nonexistent.

This all culminated with her head, slowly and methodically falling against my upper arm, near my shoulder. I think it maybe too presumptuous to put my arm around her, so my completely useless arms linger in front of my body, resting on my legs.

"Are you ready to talk yet?"

"I will be... soon."

She takes her time and honestly, she can take as long as she wants. It feels nice to finally be her rock.

Okay, so maybe the value of her touch isn't so much an economics issue but a literary one. It's not the contact in and of itself that I want but rather what the contact represents. Everything is just a symbol.

"I wish I never had my dream," she said, almost inaudibly. Her left temple is still pressing into my shoulder.

"What dream?" I asked, trying my best not to move and thereby disrupt this beautiful equilibrium we've established.

"I had a dream I fell in love."

This revelation makes my heart beat the slightest bit faster. I hope she can't feel it.

"What was wrong with it?" I ask.

What am I thinking? Of course she can't feel it. She's resting against my arm, for goodness sake.

"It was fake. It was all a hormone-driven illusion. Too good to be true."

"Hormones, huh? Sure sounds like falling in love." She doesn't answer. "Butterflies in the stomach are nice, but this? This is much better."

"What is 'this' exactly?"

"You and me right now." I make every effort not to stumble during the next word. "Friendship."

"That feeling of love," she said. _Eros_, I internally correct her, _that feeling of eros_. "is amazing."

"Yeah," I said, in my most understanding, comforting tone. "I know."

I can't say when exactly during this encounter, but by the time she peels her head away from my body and walks away, faking a smile, I am sure of something that I wasn't sure of when I first saw her hunched figure sitting alone on the picnic table:

There's no way I can wait this one out.

* * *

_The last line references a line from last chapter. If you don't remember: "I figure that **if I wait long enough,** our friendship will become ordinary and habitual enough that **any thoughts of a romantic relationship will be completely gone**. " _

_I spent a lot of time on this chapter. This chapter was one of the first ones I wrote for this story and, from then up to clicking the "add" button, have been editing it. Leave love notes, scathing criticism, ANYTHING._

_Have a beautiful day._

_-a_


	6. eavesdropping I

Wow! Huge delay, huh? Sorry, it was the result of an unfortunate alignment of a decline in my interest for writing with a sudden spike in school work. Fear not, chapters will be forthcoming!

* * *

**6/SIX **

Relationships just complicate things on tour. There's no time. Tour's ending soon. It's unreciprocated. She's contractually bounded not to. What's the point? Relationships just complicate things on tour. There's no time. It's unreciprocated. She's contractually bounded not to. Why bother?

I haven't seen J for a couple days. Today, we were busy up until the concert and didn't even arrive backstage until an hour before the first song.

After she left that day, I felt flushed and warm inside, happy. The warm fuzzies quickly faded within ten, maybe fifteen minutes. In their stead, a million questions arose. Reasons against a relationship with J keep looping in my mind during the lulls in my day.

It only got worse when I decided to lie down for a nap and pulled the drapes across the opening of my bunk. Okay, it wasn't so much a decision as a compliance to a direct order from my dad and brothers who claimed that I didn't "look so good" after the concert.

Reason number one, part A: Relationships just complicates things on tour. Reason number one part B: There's no time.

I have resigned myself to the fact that relationships and tours just don't mix. Not only do these relationships have to overcome the challenge of being long-distance, they also have to deal with the problem of time. Seeing as I usually don't even know what time zone I'm in because I'm so busy, I have very little time to give a girl the attention she expects from a relationship. There were girlfriends who have flat out accused me of being lazy and negligent. Then there were the girls who kept saying they were okay with the time apart, but in actuality they were only moments away from breaking down and breaking up.

It's strange that I can't place J into either of these categories. I usually have a feel for which of the two groups a girl will fall into, even the girls that Joe, Nick or the guys are interested in.

I guess I can't categorize which type of girlfriend J would be because I can't even picture J as my girlfriend.

Is that a good or bad sign?

You would think that dating a girl who is on tour with you would solve the long-distance and time management conundrum. I wouldn't really know: I've never dated a girl who was on tour with us. This is all a moot point because our tour ends in two weeks (and one of those weeks, I won't see her). In two weeks, I retire to our "home" in the six bedroom mansion in the California hills, and she moves back to the Ohio suburbs, presumably to go back to school or maybe work on another tour.

I'm kind of disappointed in myself because I wasted so much time. Why hadn't I become friends with her sooner? Why hadn't I admitted this to myself earlier?

Enough of this. Moving on...

I shift a little in my bunk, reaching for my iPod I keep under my pillow. With any luck, my sleep playlist will do its

Reason number two: It's unreciprocated.

I'm fairly certain that it is, anyway. I've been repressing feelings for her for so long, constantly assuring myself that there is no future there, that it's hard to tell.

My friend's might disagree if I ask them though. They have all individually approached me about it though. Whenever a passing reference is made of her in conversation, I can sense the shifting of eyes on me, silently judging my reactions and deciding if they should pursue the topic further. Sometimes they do.

Pouring through the databank of memories, I really can't think of anything that would imply any romantic feelings. All I can think about is her sharing how much of a fraud and waste of time love is.

The one memory that came to mind happened the day after we returned from J's family visit. Noticing that her friend Linda called her "Nina" and her family called her "Jeannie," I asked her if I should call her one of those.

I was teacher her how to swing a wiffleball bat properly. So I was standing 15 feet away from her, ready to pitch.

"No, those are kind of reserved for them. It would just be weird to hear you call me one of those."

"Oh, I see." The words came out sourly, despite all attempts to make them sound otherwise. I threw the ball underhand.

"No offense. It's just that... well.." She swung and caught the edge of the bat. The ball flew up high and landed a few feet to her left.

"No, I get it. Family and close friends only. Got it."

"Oh, don't get all pouty on me," she said, putting her hands on her hips.

"I mean what's there to be pouty over? You don't think I'm a good enough friend to call you 'Nina'. What's the big deal?"

"Haha.. you're being crazy. If you call me Nina, who's going to call me J?"

And then she smiled at me with a suppressed little laugh escaping her lips.

And that, my friends, is the closest me and J have come to flirting.

Anyways... reason number three: she's contra-

My ears perk at the disturbance. Over the music, I hear some footsteps, then Nick's voice. I remove half of my earphones off of my ear.

"Hey, what are you doing here?" he said in a hushed voice. My body tenses, even though I didn't hear _her_ voice, I expect to hear it very soon.

"Oh, um..." J's voice was hushed too, mimicking Nick's tone. As juvenile as it may be, I can physically feel the anxiety attacking my senses. My heart rate speeds. I resist the urge to relieve the stress by cracking my knuckles and tapping my feet against the wall. "Why are we whispering?"

"Kevin's asleep," he whispered. I smile to myself despite the anxiety attack I'm suffering from at the moment. I haven't pretended to be asleep since I was... eleven? I would stay up late under the covers and read Harry Potter books by the light of my dim Power Rangers wrist flashlight.

"Oh." She then paused, I can picture her being unsure and shifting her eyes around the floor. "Tell him I came by?"

"Yeah, I'll do that."

"Well, okay. Uh, th-thanks."

Thinking this is the end of the conversation, I silently let go of the breath that I didn't intend to hold.

"Oh wait. I just remembered." This woman is going to give me a heart attack, I swear. "Can I borrow some contact solution? Anya ran out or lost hers in her luggage, I forget which."

"Oh sure. There's a small travel-sized one in our bathroom. In the cabinet. I think you can keep it. We have a whole stash." I could picture the scene in my head: Nick is looking down the little corridor through the land of beds (there are eight of them) and pointing to the closed door. She looks him in the eyes and nods a "Thanks."

Soon she's gone. I even brace myself for another fake-exit. She is, for sure, gone.

So, where was I?

Reason three...


	7. eavsdropping II

**7/SEVEN**

It's been three days since the picnic table.

We're getting on a plane to Orlando tomorrow. Our next concert stop isn't for another week. By then, we'll be a week away from the end of our first headlining stadium tour.

What are we doing in Orlando you ask? A major Disney event. We're going to perform a couple of songs at Disney World with a whole bunch of other artists, the typical round-up of Disney-affiliated singer-slash-actors. There's going to be parades and fireworks and some major freebies – I've heard rumors of free iPhones and possibly a completely empty park just for the performers. If I haven't said it a thousand times already, I'm saying it now: I love my life.

Most of the crew is packed up and ready to spend the down-time at home. Some already left. Jeanine is still around, though leaving this afternoon. She didn't sleep the entire night. She says she'll sleep on the flight.

She and Anya are packing. Well, not so much Anya since she got most of her packing done last night, so she is just going through any possible things she forgot. J, on the other hand...

"D'oh!" J smacked her forehead, mid-way from closing her first suitcase. "I think Erica still has my sweatshirt. Be right back."

That has been fairly typical over the past forty minutes.

It was just me and Anya now. She was pretty much done her packing. One large suitcase along with one small one were neatly sitting by the door, waiting to be carried off.

"Anya, I have a question."

"Yeah?"

"Is it true that the management makes you guys sign contracts that forbid relationships on tour?"

"I didn't. I seriously doubt that's legal though."

"So, you haven't heard anything about that?"

"No, I haven't. What a weird rumor."

I shrug. "Blame the tour grapevine."

She slings an aged leather messenger bag over her shoulders and grabs her large rolling suitcase. I carry out her small but dense carry-on. We say our goodbyes and I head back inside J's bus.

When she finally arrives, I inform her of Anya's leaving. J says she saw her out on the lot and said goodbye there.

"So, what are you going to do during the break?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't know. Something new," she said, trying to zipper her suitcase shut. "I think I'm going to travel."

"Because you don't get enough of that here obviously."

"It was a joke, Kev."

"I knew that." I really did.

"Didn't sound like it," she countered, her focus obviously not on this conversation but on the contents of her bag.

"Will you go on a date with me?" I blurt out. Holy shit, did that sound as random as I thought it did?

As if the unplanned and poorly executed proposal isn't enough, she wasn't even facing me when I said it. Her back was facing towards me because she was sifting through a closet. I have no idea what her reaction was. Her motions seemed undisturbed; she continues moving clothes around. Had she even heard me? If she didn't, it's completely understandable. My voice shakes whenever I'm nervous. I bet it was kind of high and hushed too, the way it always gets when I'm on the verge of major social failure.

I got kind of excited at the possibility of her not hearing me. At the same time, I was eager to hear an answer.

Did I want her to not hear me?

Do I want to hear her answer?

I honestly don't know.

I don't feel my heart attempting to beat its way out of my chest or the perspiration collecting on my brow or anything like that, but these moments immediately after my asking her out are nothing short of horrific.

Without turning around, she yelled a response. "Whatchu say, Kev?" She grabbed her Ohio State hoody and walked back towards me.

"Uh. I... uh.." I stumble for words.

Do I ask her again?

Is she playing dumb to help me save face?

"Da-" I clear my throat. "What date are you coming back?"

"Oh.. uh... I think I'm flying out a day before the Concord show to Boston. So I'll see you there. Geez, Kev. You alright? You look a little sick."

I fake cough. Maybe that could work as the reason why my face is so hot and red right now.

"Yeah, I just got something stuck in my throat."

"Haha, want me to fetch you a water, rockstar?'

"No, I'm fine."

For the first time in a long time, I have no words. Seven thousand awkward (almost always embarrassing) interviews and I couldn't string together a few lousy words.

--

_I had something stuck in my throat._

My words will haunt me for a long time, I just know it. If I could bang my head on something without appearing insane, I totally would.

I've been walking for somewhere between five minutes to five hours: I can't really make a better estimation than that. Now approaching the end of the lot, I do an about-face and continue walking without any particular destination in mind.

The feeling in my stomach is foreign yet familiar at the same time. It feels like regret, nervousness, and weirdly enough, a little guilt. Maybe I'm just hungry. I did skip breakfast after all. My stomach growls, or rather, sneers, thus confirming my breakfast theory. I hold it tenderly, hoping the touch will pacify my very distressed stomach. So heading in the direction of food, I walk the length of one of our buses.

About to turn, I hear voices. Unable to help myself, I place an ear close to the corner and eavesdrop for the second time in nine hours.

"Joe, cut the crap." It's her.

"Okay, I did..." It's my brother. My brother? "but it was for, like, a day and I'm totally over it. I swear."

I nervously hold my stomach through my abdominal wall, hoping to suppress any noises that may jeopardize my hiding. I concentrate my best to make out the faint voices.

"Joe..." she sounds sad, maybe apologetic.

"Listen, don't feel bad for me. There's no reason to. I'm not going to jump off a building if I see you with another guy. And I will be nothing short of ecstatic if that guy is my br-"

"We're just..."

"I know; I know, but if you do, my heart will be just fine..." A beat. "How'd you know?"

"I have a sixth sense."

"Can you also see dead people?"

"Oh, that's my eighth sense. M. Night Shyamalan got it all wrong."

"We should write an angry letter."

"Definitely."

Then, the conversation rapidly descends into an awkward lull. I can't be sure of this, since I can't see the two of them, who I presume to be standing three feet from each other with arms crossed and eyes averted, but I imagine it is awkward.

I feel a motion. I don't know if it's my hands that perceive this motion or my insides, but either way, I know that my cover is going to be compromised very soon. So stealthily, I return from where I came but not without a lot to think about.

--

**A/N:**_ Did you catch how J __really found out about Joe? It was kind of oblique and obscure. I hope people are still reading. I know I've been gone for a loooong time._


End file.
